


keep close (and your enemies closer)

by Aza (sazandorable)



Series: MartinElias Week 2020 [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Five Times, M/M, Manipulation, Martin hates his job, Pre-Canon, Protectiveness, Ulterior Motives, Unfortunately Not Like That, and up to Season 4 Finale spoilers, bosses suck, passing mention of Martin/nondescript male OCs, young Martin's terrible no good super skeevy sexual history (shockingly unrelated to Elias)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:07:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27965033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sazandorable/pseuds/Aza
Summary: Five times Elias protected Martin, and one he didn’t.Written forMartinElias week 2020, day 2: Allegiance |Protection| Common Ground
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Elias Bouchard
Series: MartinElias Week 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2048108
Comments: 17
Kudos: 54
Collections: MartinElias Week 2020





	keep close (and your enemies closer)

**Author's Note:**

> **CW:** mention of generally unpleasant and non/dubiously consensual/coerced sex, including underage transactional sex and workplace sexual harassment, with gross managerial neglect and victim-blaming. Elias is an asshole as always.

1.

The man interviewing Martin stares through him like he knows. He must know, to be honest, Martin is an expert in lies and this is not a good one. Even with the stubble he let grow in this week and the vintage suit he bartered for at the flea market, there’s no way he passes as older than twenty, let alone as the twenty-three he claimed on this application. He did his homework, spent a few days reading about parapsychology on Wikipedia and at the public library, but this is the first interview he’s actually managed to get in months and he got nerves the second he stepped into the building, forgot everything he memorised when the man’s cold eyes landed on him. He’s barely managed to string together a few lame sentences and drop a couple keywords.

The man has to know he’s full of shit.

There’s a light in his eyes, like he’s about to burst out laughing. Martin just waits for it, sitting in the uncomfortable chair in the middle of the office, trying and failing not to fidget, not to bite his lip, not to breathe too fast.

God.

Back to desperate options it’s going to be, then.

“Well, then,” the man says, with a gentle smile. “That is very promising. We’ll be in touch, Mister Blackwood, but I think we would love to have you here with us.”

2.

Martin knows he apparently broadcasts ‘ _I’m gay and too desperate to make a fuss_ ’. Something happens in every single job he ever managed to land — even those four hours of helping load the neighbours’ moving truck when he was fifteen, bam, that ended with a fiver for his first blowjob. But god, he’s barely been here for two weeks and he’s either going to get fired for misconduct in the workplace when he gets caught, or Henry’s going to get mad at him for not getting him off three times every day and get him fired for gross incompetence because Martin doesn’t, actually, have a clue how to generate the call number of a book on 19th century esotericism.

Martin’s not sure which would be least bad. His resume already never survives the slightest of background checks, anyway, that wouldn’t even really factor.

“How are you doing, then, Martin?” Mr Bouchard asks him politely at his introductory performance review. “Finding your bearings? Seeing a bright future here with us?”

For some reason, his eyes linger on the side of Martin’s neck, and Martin reflexively panics for a second before he remembers, just in time to fight back the urge to slap his hand on his own skin, that he _knows_ he hid the latest hickey completely under his collar before stepping inside the office. There is no way Mr Bouchard can see it. Just coincidence. Just Martin’s nerves. “It’s fine,” Martin mumbles, his voice shakier than it was a second ago. “Thank you.”

“That’s good to hear. I was afraid Henry might cause us problems again.”

Wait.

“What do you mean, sir?”

“Oh, nothing to worry about, apparently.” Mr Bouchard smiles pleasantly. “But please, don’t be afraid to take to HR any issue you might run into with him.”

So Martin brings a cuppa and biscuits to the receptionist (her name is Rosalie, Rosie for short because she hates Twilight, and she takes three sugars in her tea), and then he goes up to Henry and explains to him exactly why he is going to leave Martin alone if _he_ wants to keep his job, actually, and Martin’s day immediately improves.

3.

Of _course_ that one researcher they’ve been hassling to return his books for six months would just dump them all in a pile on the circulation desk while Martin was making his round gently reminding the last visitors that the library is closing in ten minutes and he’s the only one still in because _Diana_ somehow always has a last-minute emergency and can’t cover the Friday evening shift, and there’s at least twenty books but definitely not the exactly thirty-two Martin distinctly remembers emailing the guy about, and what the hell even are these anyway, this one doesn’t even have a sticker —

A hand shoots out and grasps his wrist, vice-like, and Martin lets out an undignified squeak that unfortunately every single one of the seven serious academics in the library will have heard.

“Gloves for this one, I think,” says a calm voice.

“M-Mr Bouchard?”

“Oh, just call me Elias like everyone else does, Martin, please, your tendency to overcompensate for incompetence with obsequiousness is just as irritating.” Martin blinks, chooses to assume he misheard some of that, and smiles, politely. “Anyway, don’t touch this one without gloves. I’d rather not have to call for cleaners again, these floorboards take blood horribly.”

“Uhm,” Martin says. “Sure.”

He goes to fish into the pockets of his coat for his threadbare wool winter gloves, takes care not to let his skin touch the volume through the hole on the right thumb. Sure enough, when he turns it around, there’s an Artefact Storage label pasted on the cover. Also some blood stains on the label. Always nice.

He sighs.

“May I check out my book before you endeavour to get a hold of Artefact Storage at this hour?” Elias says blithely.

“Of course, Mr Bouchard. I mean,” he sighs again, resigned to not be getting home for another hour or two, “Elias.”

4.

There’s a long, long silence, and Martin is getting ready to go back down and dig through Jon’s waste basket for the worms corpses so he can throw them into this boss’s face, too.

But Elias says: “All right.”

Martin blinks. Jon blinks, too, though he straightens up and huffs and goes, “Yes, it’s the only sensible option,” like he really believes it. It’s sort of charming, in a very, very awkward way.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Elias hums, “but it truly wouldn’t do for our dear Martin to be eaten by a hive queen in his own flat, so far away from us, out of sight.” He smiles at him brightly, and you know, Martin doesn’t exactly appreciate that wording, but he’ll take what he gets.

5.

Elias stands up first, in what he clearly intends to be a power move; not great, but it isn’t like he has a lot of options for those. His manacles clink and chime together as he holds his hands out in front of him and gestures for Martin to imitate him. Martin sighs as he does, tired, tired, tired.

He didn’t exactly have high expectations, but it’s still depressing _exactly_ how useless this entire visit was. He’s not asking for much, but Elias gives him _nothing_.

“Now that’s not true,” Elias says, with that horrendous smug little grin that makes fury shoot like an icicle through Martin’s ribcage. “I’ll give you something. Come here.”

Martin glares and scowls but stands, and rolls his eyes but takes a step when Elias gestures, “Closer,” and then Elias’s shackled hands grab the hem of his shirt and he reaches in and up shooting like a snake and kisses him, close-lipped.

His lips are surprisingly hot. That’s a surprise. It’s a surprise because Martin had an opinion on what it would be like to kiss Elias, and he assumed it would be cold.

“To help you survive dear old Peter,” Elias breathes, hot, shockingly hot against Martin’s lips.

“It’s your _own fault_ I have to deal with him,” Martin protests, and pushes him away as Elias laughs.

His lips are still tingling by the time he gets back to the Institute, startlingly, nonsensically hot, hot, hot.

* * *

1.

 _How is Martin, by the way? He looks well. You will keep an eye on him when all this is over, won’t you? He’s earned that,_ says the letter, says the _bloody letter_ , shameless and cheery, downright gleeful. Martin reads it five times before he angrily crinkles it into a ball and throws it into the fireplace, and watches it burn (too late, too late). The paper bubbles and erupts into eyes, for a few seconds, dozens of multi-coloured disembodied eyeballs that all turn to stare at Martin before bursting and liquefying in the flames, the last of the letter finally turning to ash.

But at that point Martin can recite the words in his own head anyway.


End file.
